


things of or pertaining to counterpoint

by eudaimon



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 06:11:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eudaimon/pseuds/eudaimon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At some point, things changed between them and they'd kept tumbling into bed drunk but then they'd started staying and, somehow, it's been two years and the Enterprise is in totally uncharted territory in more ways than one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	things of or pertaining to counterpoint

Sometimes, it feels _exactly_ like falling, when he leans in and kisses him and all that he can hear is the racing drumming beating of Jim Kirk's heart, threatening to drown out his own. He always feels in danger of being drowned out when Jim is around. Which is okay, when he thinks about it; he's never exactly minded playing second fiddle with Jim, especially with Jim, who always reminds him of Icarus (cocky and brave and perpetually too close to the sun). And someone's got to catch him or be prepared to fall with him.

One of the two.

There are worse things that falling, far, far worse things, especially if you actually get close enough to _touch_ the sun. Chaos usually follows but, out here, it feels like it doesn't matter, anyway.

Out here, the sun would just be another star.

Now, he walks out onto the Bridge and Jim's just sitting there, lit by the dim glow of the instruments. Out of uniform, Jim looks neat and spare, sprawled in the command chair. Jim doesn't look up when he walks up behind him, but he does smile. He's seen that smile before, just before Jim leans down and kisses him or when it's him leaning and he presses kisses against Jim's chest, his hand on Jim's hip and, somehow, Jim arches and stays. At some point, things changed between them and they'd kept tumbling into bed drunk but then they'd started staying and, somehow, it's been two years and the Enterprise is in totally uncharted territory in more ways than one.

"Hey, Bones," says Jim, and he holds out one hand, fingers slightly curled. "Come sit with me for a while."

What Leonard McCoy knows is this: that there's a sadness in Jim that runs bone deep, that he runs because he doesn't know how to do anything else, that he dreams of falling. That it's hell growing up as the echo of a hero. That Jim grew brighter to fill the gaps and louder to drown out the echoes. That, sometimes, Jim is capable of true, deep quiet and that those are the times when he's beautiful, really beautiful, when he's at his most still. In these quiet moments are when it all feels most dangerous, like holding a spluttering firework in your hand moments before it explodes into sparks. He bends and kisses Jim's cheekbone.

"Quiet out there," he says.  
"Quiet in here, too," says Jim and then he turns his head and they kiss.

Another thing he knows: this story doesn't end well. It can't end well, because Jim Kirk was born of a hurricane and, eventually, every storm blows itself out, clean out. He'll be there when it happens, that much he knows, and he's got a horrible feeling that it's going to happen sooner rather than later. Sometimes, they'll be in bed, close as they can get, and McCoy looks into Jim's face and he wonders how long he'll have him for, how long he lasts, how long before Jim falls and this time keeps falling and there's nothing to catch him but the arms of the earth. He wonders how long before Jim finally gets himself into something that he can't get out of.

He wonders how long they've got left. 

And there's nowhere to sit so he sinks down and sits on the cool floor at Jim's feet, back to the chair and, in time, Jim slips down to sit beside him. They sit there, shoulder to shoulder, fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. They shouldn't work as well as they do, but they always have, and he might not believe in fate but he has to believe in the occasional chance in Hell. He has to sometimes believe that good things happen to people who, if they aren't good, are only flawed in ways which hurt themselves. He has to believe that, somewhere in the whole wide universe, there's a place where they get lucky.

He opens his mouth to say something, _I love you_ , maybe, or _what are you waiting for_ but then Jim kisses him with his lips already parted and he's older than Jim, so he knows more about love and loss of love and the things which you can come to regret, in time, but this is James T. Kirk they're talking about, this kid here, this stuff of legend and banner headline, and sometimes, miracles happen and sometimes, you're given a little grace. Jim's hand slips down to press between McCoy's legs, and he's wearing sweatpants instead of a uniform, so he feels the heat of Jim's fingers and he lifts his hips and he knows that doing this on the bridge isn't the best idea in the world but Jim's mouth is hot and wet and his fingers are insistent and McCoy can hear the beating of Jim's heart again but then he can hear his own beating just as quickly, contrapuntal, and, right there, there it is: grace that he was promised and searched for and longed for, and found. 

The view-screen tumbles stars


End file.
